


Unknown Causes

by deanau



Category: The Mighty Boosh (TV)
Genre: (just a lil bit), Angst, Swearing, this is literally just a feels fest tbh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-05
Updated: 2015-06-15
Packaged: 2018-04-03 00:34:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4079836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deanau/pseuds/deanau
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Howard is ignoring Vince. Vince just wants to know why.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Howard had been ignoring him for ages. Vince didn't think it was fair.

He didn't even know what he'd done to deserve such treatment - Howard had just stopped acknowledging him. It wasn't even in a particularly snotty manner, which concerned Vince far more than it appeased him. He did not turn away from Vince when he entered a room; some days, he'd stare at him listlessly, before continuing about his business. It became apparent in the moments when Vince would speak, carefully suggesting cups of tea or Collobus marathons, and Howard neglected to notice him. Even if he was looking right at him - could clearly see him, see his mouth forming the words - he'd fail to reply, not even offering a shrug of the shoulders or the crinkling of crows eyes.

To make this torture all the more painful, Naboo and Bollo had left the same day that Howard had begun to act as though his best friend didn't exist. They'd claimed that they'd needed to get away, far from the "bad ju-ju" that the flat was apparently teeming with. Vince assumed they meant Howard's bad attitude.

Howard's new set of behaviours were far worse than the departure of their flat-mates. He'd taken to moping about, sitting tucked into the corners of the sofa, listening to his old jazz records on full volume. Vince had tried to confront him about this, going so far as to smash a Miles Davis record, spinning around and around, faster and faster, endlessly looping until it drove him mad-

And Howard hadn't even been angry. He'd been shocked, more than anything else - small eyes widening somewhat as he'd crouched amongst the shards, hands scrabbling uselessly at the broken pieces. Vince had screamed at him to stop, yelled that he was cutting his hands, the stupid jazzy freak; as he'd shaken his shoulders, unable to move him or break through the trance he was in, Vince had realised that he'd probably made Howard all the more determined to ignore him, and had thus left him to his records.

Howard had tried to force the pieces back together, but none of them would fit.

Vince had slunk out of his room quietly, the next morning, wary about waking Howard. He hadn't slept, himself - since he'd stopped going out, in an attempt to make Howard less angry with him, he'd had an almost endless amount of energy. He'd never felt more alive - even the throbbing, pulsing music of the clubs, the faceless mass of writhing bodies, didn't make him feel as ethereal as this; not physically, at least. However, the longer he spent, essentially alone, in their flat, the more emotionally drained he felt. Vince could feel himself getting angrier with far greater ease than he was accustomed too: he'd never broken anything on purpose before, never intentionally harmed anyone or anything.

Howard was slumped against the sofa, unconscious, still grasping an armful of his now useless record. Vince slipped around him easily; surprisingly so, as Howard's bulky frame lay parallel to much of the sofa. He'd crept up onto the cushions, and had lain a weightless hand on Howard's shoulder as he slept. When Howard had awoken, he hadn't even stopped to shake off the hand - he'd just displaced the shards that he'd been holding in his arms, and, careful not to tread on any of the pieces, meandered over to the kitchen.

He'd boiled the kettle. Pulled one mug from the mug-tree. Removed one tea bag from the jar. Taken one tea-spoon from the drawer.

Vince felt himself going red. He'd stomped all over the record, sending small chunks of it flying about the living room. He'd marched right up to Howard, sending the mug falling to the floor.

"What have I done, Howard? Go on, tell me!"

Howard had neglected to reply, instead turning sorrowfully to gather up the remains of his cup. He'd disposed of them carefully in the bin. All the while, Vince had stood, fists clenched, seething as he watched Howard potter about.

"'Cause I ain't done nothing to you!"

Howard didn't even raise an eyebrow at the double negative; he simply chose to take a new mug from the wooden tree instead. He dropped the tea bag in.

"I can't even get to none of my clothes, Howard! I can't touch any of my things! I know you got Naboo to put a charm on them before he left, though I don't know why he's taking your side, you- you- you wanker!"

Nothing. Not even a quirk of the mouth at Vince's profanity.

Vince drooped, defeated.

"Please, Howard? Just tell me. G'on."

Howard turned his back, and left.

 

It had been two weeks, and Vince was leaving. He was unable to get to any of his belongings: "fucking Naboo," he'd muttered to himself, as he'd tried, desperately, to pack. He hadn't eaten in a while, either - he hadn't been hungry. Often, he forgot to do so for days at a time, so he chalked it up simply to his empty-headedness, and his anger at Howard.

He'd marched down to the front door, empty-handed, matching Howard stride-for-stride as he'd gone to collect the post. He'd made one last attempt to speak to him - for as angry as he was at him, he was concerned, too. It was unusual for Howard to be genuinely sad about anything; he was good at pretending, at rousing hyperbole after any given situation. He'd wax lyrical about the darkness claiming his life, then be off to Lester's with a thermos of coffee and a trumpet half an hour later.

This time, however, something Vince had done must have been seriously bothering him. He had never been any good at ignoring people - he was paid far too little attention for him to warrant brushing it off.

More than that, though, was the strange nature of his behaviour when he was alone. Vince had walked in on him clutching an old photo album to his chest, face blotchy and red with tears. He hadn't given Vince even a glance, but his face had screwed up as he'd sat down next to him. Reluctantly, he'd re-opened the book to where he'd last been looking at it.

Staring up at them had been a photo of them both, clad in their Zooniverse uniforms. Vince was leaning over to grab his hand; Howard had been leaning back, hands open but raised. His mouth was slack, halfway through saying "Don't touch me, Vince. Don't ever touch me." Vince was laughing, eyes crinkled shut and mouth wide, his cheeks flushed red with exuberance and amusement - already prepared to move back in, and clasp his palm before he'd finished speaking.

"Vince," Howard had murmured, tracing a finger slowly down the crisp edge of the page. He'd turned it, slowly; but Vince had felt like he was invading, though Howard had never asked him to go. He'd left anyway.

 

Howard knelt down, and quickly flicked through the small pile of letters awaiting him. He ignored the bills, though they had been marked 'urgent', stamped brutally in red letters.

He stopped at a letter which had been labelled in a someone's own hand. Turning it over, he saw Xooberon as the return address. A tiny smirk played about his lips, before he frowned, and took it back to the dining table to carefully open with his letter-opener.

Vince, though desperate to leave, was intrigued as to the contents of the letter. He tried the door half-heartedly, only to find himself unable to open it anyway; not even able to twist the doorknob. He'd need Howard to help him, regardless, so he trooped back into the kitchen; only to see Howard wiping his eyes inconspicuously as he read.

Vince's heart went out to him. It was rare to see Howard cry when there was no audience to impress with his acting. With fierce emotion firing through him, he pulled out a chair, sat down, and stared sombrely at Howard.

"Can I read it?"

"What does it say, Howard?"

"I'm sorry. I don't know what I've done - but I must've acted like a tit, so I'm sorry."

"Howard? This isn't like you."

Howard said nothing, eyes clouded with tears. Then:

"Little man," he choked, dropping the letter and winding his hands together, digging his nails into his knuckles.

Vince shifted so that he could see the discarded letter.

 _Howard,_ (it said)

_I hope you're doing alright. No - really, I do. Sorry, I know you're having a bit of a shocker anyway. That probably didn't help._

_We've kept his body as long as we can, Howard. We need to hold a funeral. Even on Xooberon we can't stop the decomposition for as long as I know you'd like. It might give you some closure. I hope it does._

_We'll be back down tomorrow._

_If it helps, Vince always said he'd like to die young. If not, you're welcome to share a pipe with Bollo and I when we get home._

_Naboo._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally just going to be a one-shot, but I didn't want to leave them as they were; I felt like it needed an explanation, and something of a conclusion... So we now progress to a multi-chapter mess! Woo!

"He brought me back, Naboo. Surely I can do the same." Howard puffed up his chest, inhaling deeply. He brought a hand up to his chin, scratched at the beginnings of a beard that he'd neglected to shave. "I'm Howard Moon. If Vince could do it, I can."

"It's not as simple as that, you ballbag. If it was, don't you think I'd have suggested it straight away?"

"But Vince hasn't even been taken to Monkey Hell! He's still here. Kind of."

"You think he hasn't moved on?" Naboo leant back against Bollo, and took the hookah from his furry hand. Sucking on it, with an idle grace that angered Howard, he puffed out a small waft of smoke as he spoke.

"That's right, yes sir." Howard nodded. "Things aren't, well, aren't as they usually are. One of my records broke the other day."

"Probably just the flat. It doesn't like jazz either, y'know." Naboo smirked.

"Naboo! Please. And I went to make tea, and the mug went flying. Whenever I try to re-arrange Stationery Village, it moves back to how it was. And..."

"And?" Bollo prompted.

"I thought I heard someone crying. It was when I got your letter, about you two coming home. It sounded like when he was little - well, littler - and he'd have nightmares, and I'd wake up to him trying to stifle his sobs into his pillow. He'd cover it up, though - have a grin ready as soon as I looked over - but I knew what he was doing. This sounded just like it, Naboolio. Please," he repeated. "You have to believe me."

"I do."

"Just like that?"

"You're an idiot, Howard. But yeah, I do."

 

::::

 

"A ouija board? You've gone wrong."

"Nah. If Vince is here, surely you wanna talk to him?"

"Yeah, but - what if it doesn't work?"

"It will." Ignoring Howard's half-hearted, somewhat garbled protests, Naboo sat down. He took Bollo's hand in his, guiding his fingertips to the planchette, before Howard clumsily added his. "Off you go, then."

Howard's fingers began to tremble on the glass. Naboo and Bollo shot him matching, disbelieving glances. "V-Vince? Are you, um. You here, little man?"

Slowly, the glass moved to the word _yes_. Howard gasped, a shocked breath of air leaving his lungs in one rapid, jerking movement. Slightly faster, it began to spell out a sentence:

_All right_

"Vince," Howard choked, beaming, eyes twinkling through their filmy layer of tears. "Is it really you?"

_No_

"Don't mess, Vince. I can't-"

_Sorry_

"Don't apologise, it's fine, it's fine," Howard blustered, overwhelmed. "How are you?"

_Really_

"Sorry."

_Its fine_

"Missed an apostrophe there, Vince."

_Insufrable_

"You know, I can't even tell if you're doing that on purpose."

_Not the best form of comunication is it_

This one took Howard a little longer to process. "You're right about that, little man."

The room got a little warmer.

 

::::

 

Howard lay awake with the board clutched to his chest, long after Naboo and Bollo had tired of their seance. Naboo had pulled him aside as Bollo shuffled off in search of a lighter.

"Be careful, okay Howard? These things can be dangerous. You can only really use them to talk to spirits on the lower astral plane - they're confused, and usually they've died a sudden or violent death. That's why you can use it to talk to Vince."

Howard shuddered.

"But - don't get carried away, yeah? Maybe don't try and use it without me an' Bollo, okay?"

"Okay," he'd agreed. But as he held it close, felt the unforgiving wood acting as a poor replacement for his best friend, he thought that a little go couldn't hurt, not that much, not really.

He pulled himself upright, and lay the board and planchette out in front of him: balanced haphazardly on duvet-cloaked knees.

He closed his eyes, steeled himself.

"Vince?"

 

::::

 

Howard stumbled from their - _his_ \- room the next morning, blearily rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He played idly with a loose strand of his heavy dressing gown, pulling in short, sharp movements.

He took two mugs from the mug-tree. Plopped a tea bag into each. Took out two spoons - Vince liked to stir his tea as he drank it, and there was no way Howard planned on contaminating his hearty brew with Vince's sugary sludge.

He took a step back. Shook his head. Vince wasn't there.

He pulled a third mug from the wooden tree, and made tea for Naboo and Bollo, too, rather than just for himself. He knocked on the door with the side of his bare foot, and shifted impatiently as he waited for one of them to open the door. Bollo peeled it open, eyes at half-mast and heavily lidded. He grunted as he took the cups, letting some of the pungent smoke seep into the living room as he left the door open.

"Naboo doing research," he offered, as a means of thanks. "See what he can do for precious Vince."

Howard sniffed pointedly. "Yeah, seems like he's really slaving away in there."

"Shut up, Harold."

"Yeah, it's Howard, actu-"

Bollo shut the door in Howard's face.

 

::::

 

"I miss you."

_Mis u 2_

"You miss U2? That's flattering, Vince. And unexpected - not Gary Numan? Or Bowie?"

_You too_ , Vince spelt, the planchette doing a little loop as it repeated the 'o'. There was a pause. _A lot_ , he added. _Im bored_

"Want me to put some music on?"

_No_

"What do you want, then?"

The room went cold. Howard shifted, pulling his cardigan - a dashing shade of intense truffle - tighter about his person. "Come on, Vince. You can tell me."

_Tel me what hapened_

"What do you mean?"

_Tel me why Im dead_


	3. Chapter 3

"You mean you don't know?"

Howard boggled at the apparently empty space in front of him, where, unbeknownst to him, Vince sat, cross-legged, mirroring Howard's position almost exactly. He dragged the planchette across the board:

_No_

Then:

_Tel me_

Gaping like a fish, Howard heaved out a great sigh of air. "I don't like to..."

A tiny line appeared between Vince's eyebrows as he frowned. _I didnt know_

"Didn't know what?"

 _That I was dead_ , Vince spelt, dragging the small piece of glass across the wood quickly. He paused, albeit briefly, to allow Howard to link the letters into something understandable, before continuing: _Thought you were ignoring me_. He allowed himself a small, self-depreciating smile. Howard barked out a short laugh, aghast though he was.

"What, all three of us? How did that work, you batty crease?" He stopped, mid-sentence; the corners of his mouth pulling down, yanking his brow with them. "Sorry, Vince."

_Thats ok_

"I don't really know where to start."

_Thought u were a writer_

Howard opened his mouth, but Vince was relentless. _A maverick of narative_

Vince snorted, the movement pushing his hands; and, thus, pushing the planchette back towards Howard. It shook with his convulsions.

"Are you laughing at me, sir? Nobody laughs at Howard Moon."

_Sory_

"But are you really sorry?"

_Stop staling_

"Okay. It was, well - it was horrible, Vince. You'd gone out, and I was waiting up; it was late enough that that was, indeed, what it should be called - but not so late that I'd got fed up and gone to bed. And Leroy rings, and I answer, and he wants me to come and pick you up - 'Vince is in a right two and eight', he'd laughed, and laughed and laughed and he didn't stop laughing, so I hung up. And I moaned a bit, to be honest with you, but I went and found my shoes, and I got a jacket for you - not one of your tiny slips, no sir, one of mine.

"And I drive around for a bit, trying to find this club Leroy had described, but when I get there I can't see anyone - not him, not you, none of your groupies - but I hear something. I get out of the van, armed with this big beige nightmare of a cardigan, thinking it's a nice young girl that'd been left by her friends - I was going to swoop in and rescue her.

"Only it's not a girl, is it?" Here Howard paused, forced out a chuckle that sounded broken and unamused. "It's you, Vince. You're all curled up in an alleyway, tucked against a wall, and you're clutching your hand to your stomach. And what I'd heard was you; you just kept crying, Vince, and I didn't know what to do-" He paused, inhaled deeply. "So I tried to peel you away from the wall, but you screamed, and-" Howard faltered again, eyes downcast as he attempted to regulate his breathing. As he resumed speaking, he made an effort to not trip over the words as they fled his mouth, desperate to be free; as desperate as he was to be done speaking them.

"I manage to get you to let me look at your tummy, and your jumpsuit is all sticky where I try to see what's wrong. My hands are all red, but yours are worse - and you cling to my lapels, and your chant changes: it's 'Howard, Howard, help me,' over and over but I still don't know what I'm doing. So I ring nine-nine-nine, and I press the cardigan to where I think the blood is coming from, and you start sliding down the wall. I pull you upright; sit against the wall myself, I do, and pop you in my lap like a tiny nugget. I'm talking nonsense, just words and I'm trying to soothe you, but you throw up and it's on my foot and in the alley, and then you pass out. And I still don't know what to do - I'm holding you and trying to wipe your face a bit, because you wouldn't want to be seen like this. Not being held by your sad jazzy friend with sick down yourself." Howard sighed, the anxiety which had been palpable leaving him in floods. "I was too late," he mumbled. "You'd lost too much blood, there was organ failure... It was over by the time you got to the hospital."

There was silence, save for the gentle and steady _woosh_ of breath through Howard's nose.

"Vince?" Howard whispered, reaching out a calming hand; to which there was no reply. Howard's hand wafted uselessly through empty air. "I'm so sorry, little man," he murmured.

The silence - delicate, time-stopping - was broken by the angry scrape of glass on wood. The planchette was moving too quickly, too erratically, for Howard to piece together any possible meaning.

"Vince?" He tried again, shifting closer to the ouija board without taking his hand from it.

_Notvincenotvince_

"What do you mean? Vince?" Howard's voice raised, the higher pitch making it squeaky and fearful.

 _Notvincenotvince_ , the board repeated.

"I know it's a shock, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have told you-" Howard's rambling was brought to a halt by Naboo throwing open the bedroom door.

"Howard, you jerk-off - you've got to leave it. Thought I told you not to mess with the occult on your own?" He paused, shook his head. "Anyway, that's not Vince. I can sense it - Vince feels different to this."

"Is it malignant?" Howard froze, hands still being pulled about the board in the same, repeated pattern.

"Should be alright as long as you haven't asked it for something physical."

"Hey, now! I might be desperate, but I'm not that desperate, Naboo."

"I mean to prove that you're communicating, like getting it to make the lights flicker, you bean sprout."

"Oh. Oh, no. Hold on - where's Vince gone?"

"What did you say to him?"

"Nothing important, Naboolio; oh, y'know, just idle chit-chat between friends..."

"I can't help you if you lie to me, Howard."

"Might have maybe, perhaps, possibly mentioned a series of events that could be construed as being of a distressing nature-" he rambled, eyes darting about, intent on avoiding Naboo's firm gaze.

"What did you tell him?"

"I told him about his death, okay! He wanted to know; he didn't even realise he'd gone, not to begin with - he thought we were all ignoring him!" Howard choked on the words as they arose, closing his throat. He gestured frantically as his voice failed, hands leaving the planchette to fall limply on its side. "How cruel is that?"

"Very. But it's interesting, and that'd be why he's gone - the shock probably meant that he lost the connection with you, which allowed this other spirit to take over."

"How can we get him back?"

"We don't," Naboo scolded; but upon seeing Howard's crestfallen expression he softened both his tone and expression. "Give him time. But I still don't want you messing with my stuff, so I'm taking the board."

"But I-"

"I know. Me 'n Bollo have been looking for a way to bring him back. You're even more of a wet blanket then you usually are, and Bollo's not been much better - 'Oh, Bollo miss precious Vincey' - he's a right monkey mess."

"Thanks, Naboo."

"Don't mention it. I mean that - don't."

 

::::

 

When Vince came back to himself, he wasn't sure how he felt. He was, to an extent, glad that he understood, now - it was better than the dizzying confusion and inability to comprehend why all of his friends were ignoring him; why he could interact with few inanimate objects on few occasions. Naboo had explained that his actions - those that had had an impact in the physical realm, at least - had been connected with strong emotion, which made his waning spiritual presence more felt in the real world.

There was also, however, the horrifying reality of his situation to contend with. Vince didn't do thinking, not really; he preferred to flit through life without a care. Besides, Howard had always worried and over-analysed enough for a good twelve percent of the human population - he was fairly sure that, as a double-act, they had that covered. In this case, though, whilst it was clear that Howard was worried (disturbingly so, in fact) it was something which, realistically, impacted Vince considerably more.

He knew that Naboo was trying to find a way of bringing him back to life; though Howard had been assured that it was impossible for him to find Vince, in much the same way Vince had once looked for Howard, Naboo had neglected to discuss the possibility that there were ways to traverse any of the many planes of existence that Vince's lost soul could be inhabiting. Vince frowned. More than anything, he was lonely.

He'd always had someone - and, on some occasions, something - to talk to, before. Be it animals or people, strange but benevolent creatures or monsters that remained only somewhat scary, there had always been something to keep him occupied. And, more than that - he'd always had Howard.

Vince stretched, before moving to lie in a supine position on Howard's bed. He could still smell it - he'd have to ask Naboo about that, if they found a better means of communication - the musky tang of tobacco, and Howard's simple soaps; he buried the back of his head into the pillow, and stared morosely at the ceiling.

As different as they were, they needed each other. Two halves of one whole, they'd always said. Though Vince knew he often acted like a tit, he also knew that Howard was, really, just as bad - they were awful and brilliant to each other, but there was always an underlying love keeping them together. They just didn't work alone - it was like chopping a big, greasy pig in half, Howard had once laughed. Both halves would just flop over, without the other keeping it upright. Vince hadn't really appreciated that analogy at the time. Still didn't, if he was honest with himself.

The sun caught Vince's eye, distracting him. It was slowly traipsing down the sky, leaving a trail of hues, muted pinks and purples and oranges, in its wake. The window had been left open; there was a chill pervading the room, though Vince couldn't feel it.

Howard shuffled through the still-open door, before turning and shutting it carefully. He moved with equal caution to his bed: almost dragging himself, so great was his apparent effort. Vince, unsure as to what would happen if Howard were to sit on him, pulled himself upright and made room for his friend.

They sat in silence; Howard unaware of Vince's presence, and Vince unable to make himself known.

Eventually, Howard began to change into a pair of striped pyjamas; Vince looked away when he saw his blush, and the anxious glances sent in every direction about the room. It was only then that he cleared his throat, after perhaps an hour of comfortable silence:

"Vince, if you're in here, you'd better not be watching."

He then slipped into his bed, wriggling his legs in an attempt to warm up the sheets. He scooted to the side - just in case - and Vince slid in alongside him, laying his insubstantial head on Howard's broad shoulder. Whilst Howard slept, Vince lay awake; subconsciously snuggling closer to him, in a vain attempt to bring some feeling to his own weightless body. Howard radiated heat at night, and Vince ended up squished to his side as the sun began to break through the early morning mist.

As the day rolled around once more, the pair remained where they should be: together.


End file.
